


beg for the night

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Duty of Care, F/M, Intimacy, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here comes your love, he longs to be near you. (Set after "The Witch's Familiar.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	beg for the night

He's exhausted, really. They both are. There's something about hitting the absolute depths and then being forced to keep going. One of them locked inside a Dalek, the other trying to go back to the past and set the whole thing right.

It's odd, though. He was able to make a grand romantic gesture, play a song for her, hug her, but somehow he can't repeat it now that they're not trying to run from an army of Daleks. Of course, they'll probably have to do that again sometime, but he'd like to put that off for as long as he can.

She rescued him. He doesn't know how he can possibly respond to that, reciprocate. But right now, he doesn't want to rewrite the past anymore. Right now he just wants to live in the present. Which, at the moment, is a tiny exoplanet where they can both just relax. It was something he wanted to show her anyway. He just wants to make her happy. Something like...a duty of care, he might call it. This compulsion to keep saving, keep protecting her, no matter the cost.

Animals wander past, some familiar, some not. It's raining gently, more of a mist than anything else. The rain has caught in Clara's hair, drops that glisten while they keep walking. Neither of them really talking, both absorbed in their own thoughts. Every so often the Doctor will look over at her, just to make sure she's still there, and every time he's relieved again that she is.

It's then that he hears Clara make her own sort of animal noise. Something between a moan and a whimper, a noise he's never heard her make before. He doesn't want her to stop making that sound - it makes him a little light-headed, though he's not sure why. He looks over at her again and sees that she's stretching, arms up over her head. And it makes him start, suddenly absorbed in this warm feeling he can't quite describe. The same kind of feeling he had when he saw her again in that arena, the same kind of feeling that compelled him to dedicate that song to her. Either way, it's over too soon and she goes back to pointing out all the different animals as if nothing ever happened.

***

Clara spends more time aboard after that. He doesn't mind at all, really - he just wishes she would stay longer, maybe not even leave. Which is sort of what ends up happening, her things slowly becoming more a part of how he's arranged the TARDIS. Becoming more a part of him.

She's painting her nails: one leg propped on the console, hunched over her foot, a little bottle of crimson polish in her hand. Her nightgown has ridden up. Which is probably the first indication that he really shouldn't look, but he does, half by accident, half compelled by that new and unfamiliar urge, that warm feeling he's afraid of but wants to follow anyway.

He can see all the way up between her legs. She's wearing a little pale pink scrap of fabric that's trimmed with lace. And he wants more than anything to touch it, know what it feels like, know whether or not she'd let him, if she has the same feeling he does.

Clara's telling him something that he can't quite decipher because he's too lost in the static of his mind. Mutedly aware that she might be telling a joke - he doesn't know what reaction she's going for and would really like her to explain that to him so he doesn't make a mistake. Mostly he's just happy that she's here and hopes she can tell, because he so often gets that wrong.

The light from the console makes Clara's skin glow. She looks so - pretty, that's the word, although it's a word that seems so human and small for what he sees, what he thinks, tumbling headfirst into whatever this is. He'd told her that there's never a moment where he doesn't see her, but now it feels like he's starting to see her again in some new and different way. Focusing on her mouth, now, while she's talking to him. Crimson lips, crimson nails - colours that seem somehow suggestive. Of what, he can't be sure, but he'd like to find out.

Then Clara shifts a little, adjusting her weight as she sits, and her nightgown settles back down. That scrap of fabric left to remain a mystery.

***

So this is just something to take care of, check off. Then he can return to normal and stop feeling this way. (Some part of him knows that this is just a rationalisation. He's not ready to admit that yet.)

Perhaps it's for the best that she's not completely moved in. She's off somewhere farther away in the TARDIS, arranging her things. So he has a quiet moment to himself, sitting up in the area that's overlooking the console. Surrounded by round things - he's always loved that. It's soothing.

He sinks back into the cushions and gives himself a hesitant sort of stroke-pull, shaping himself through his trousers. Brush of fabric against sensitive skin. His brain splices all these images together: when they hugged in that arena, holding onto her (didn't want to stop holding her). Then the image gets scrambled because they're still hugging, but now she's wearing her nightgown. Crimson polish. Clara making that animal noise: whimpering, satisfied. And he pictures himself feeling all the way up her thigh, reaching between her legs to discover just what lies between them. Pictures her wanting, eyes open, that animal sound again, moaning while he touches her. Zippers and buttons and then holding himself, skin pulsing against skin in some kind of relief. Feeling this odd desire that throbs through him, a wanting that is a force all its own, a force that makes him squeeze himself maybe a little too fiercely, move his hand a little more urgently. He's panting. Another burst of heat travels all the way through his cock - he's going to come -

Which is when he hears her voice. He opens his eyes and looks down at her. She's busy, focused. "Sorry, I just forgot my - " Clara stops, hand just inches away from the jumper she'd left draped over the railing closer to the console. And then she meets his gaze. "Oh" in a tiny voice. He's caught, completely. Dim awareness that his hand is still frozen around the bulging evidence, but he can't seem to move.

He feels so dirtybadwrong, like he's messing everything up - because he knows that they won't ever be able to go back to the standard-issue Doctor/Companion relationship, not after this. But she doesn't walk away. Instead she drops the sweater and climbs up the stairs to sit next to him, the soft swell of her breasts uncomfortably close. Against his will, he shows her all those psychic scraps, what he saw, what he wanted. "It's ok," Clara says, her voice soft.

Her breasts are pressing against his arm, and she's reaching down - her hand so small compared to his - "I like knowing that you think about me. And that you do this when you think about me." And he wants to say that he's never done this before, never thought about her like this before. Tries to explain that it was just something to address, a one-off, and then everything will be righted again because he wants to believe that it can. But his voice is lost in the roar of blood throbbing in his ears, his temples, his wrist, his cock. His mind seems to be malfunctioning as much as his body is.

She's so calming, gentle, like she's helping him through this. Touching him, guiding his hand up along himself as though she's got a duty of care of her own. Just the feeling of their hands together makes him moan a little. She seems to know exactly what she's doing, where and how to touch him. Skillful but sensitive and it calls up all of these new images, his imagination running wild.

He's got all this painful awareness of her body heat against his and the way it matches the heat pulsing through his cock. Her lips, warm and just a little wet when they brush against his neck. The light touch of her mouth on his skin makes his whole body seem newly sensitive. Both of his heartbeats catch together in a weird sort of tangle - he can hear, can feel, her heartbeat as well as it flutters against his arm. Tangible arousal pulsing thick - she can see -

Voice soft - soft swell of her breasts - "it's ok" - and he's groaning, gasping. He's coming in twitching blurts all over himself, all over Clara. A kind of strangled noise rips itself out of his mouth. And she's still saying "it's ok" even though he's still not sure any of this is.

***

The Doctor wants it to be ok, is the thing. So he takes her to an aquarium planet. Somewhere nice and innocent. Fish floating dreamily through the air overhead. There's a neat little walkway through it all that's made of glass so they can see more fish as they swim slowly in shallow pools not far below. He's not sure how to handle himself. Everything's gotten flipped around. He's the one that is supposed to be taking care of her, but now she's taking care of him.

Clara may be tiny, but he feels her presence like a force as she walks beside him, a force that draws him in. She takes his hand. They've held hands before, and these days they hold hands even more often. Like they belong together. But he's still not entirely used to it, and now it feels completely different. Imbued with this new kind of warmth and extra meaning _(hand guiding him up along himself)_ which is when he snatches his hand away. Clara looks up at him, concerned. "What's wrong, Doctor?" He can't explain it: the wanting and the not-wanting that's still a kind of desire of its own.

"You seem distracted. Is everything ok?" _(it's ok.)_

He's aware of her pressing him up against the border of the glass walkway _(soft swell of her breasts)_ "I could get you off again," she says. This can't be real. The wanting and not-wanting, but in this instance it's just the wanting. It still doesn't feel quite real, even when Clara reaches down and strokes him. So gentle, just feeling out the shape of his cock where it sits in his trousers. He gets this bizarre, jarring thought that there's too much fabric in the way even though it's just his trousers and pants. "That seems to be something you need." And he does, he does _(didn't want to stop holding her)_. Getting almost uncomfortably hard.

Undoing his belt, tugging his trousers and pants out of the way - and now she's folding down onto her knees. "I won't hurt you, I promise." _(it's ok.)_ Squeezing him, holding him, guiding him. Just her lips on him, mouth closed over the head of his cock but not completely. A pause that feels much, much too long until she slowly runs her tongue up along where he's leaking precome. Pause again. Repeat. Finally closing her mouth properly with a slurping sound. Sliding her mouth down in an even measure until she sucks her way back off and gives him a kiss at his hip. "Put it in my mouth," she says quietly. So tender that he can barely process this, like it's not even his own left hand that's pushing himself against her lips, nudging them open, or his own right hand that takes hers where it's waiting at his hip. Their hands nestled together at the base of his cock. He shudders _(hand guiding him up along himself)._

It's Clara, it's his girl. It's her mouth as she works her way up and down his cock at irregular intervals, each one bringing him farther along until he shudders again. Wet, dripping - Clara has to swallow twice before she stands up, dusts off her knees, and helps him tuck himself back into his trousers. "There's just so much of you," she says, hugging him. The Doctor hugs her back. It seems she doesn't just mean that in a sexual way, but rather that she understands how much of him there is: all the ebb and flow of his feelings. He's so grateful that even knowing all of this about him she doesn't run away. _When do I not see you?_ Maybe she sees him, too.

***

On a picnic blanket, on a sand dune, at the beach. As far away from Daleks as it is possible to be. The sun is warm, friendly. The Doctor took Clara here because there's going to be a fireworks display tonight and he thought she might like to see that. For now, though, they're just watching boats off in the distance as they sail lazily past.

And Clara is next to him, just like always. Her presence soothing, just like always. He just has to be with her. Wants to let her know. So he turns to her and leans in, kissing her in a shy and testing sort of way. Then he pulls away, embarrassed and overwhelmed at how even that one small moment is so meaningful.

Quiet again. Just watching the sun slowly sink beyond the horizon. Sometimes talking, sometimes not. Clara stealing all his crisps when he's not looking. "You know you can touch me if you want" he hears her say. That tiny but powerful force gets a hold on him again when he kisses her for the second time. Her permission, encouragement, trips some kind of wire and he can't stop touching her. Simple touches at first - hand on the small of her back for the briefest of seconds to ground himself. Finding where her waist curves in. Taking her hand in his, running his fingertips over her knuckles. Holding hands like they belong together - and they do, although he's starting to think that he belongs to her more than anything else. He's almost fidgeting because he just wants to touch all of her, all at once. _(didn't want to stop holding her.)_

But he's also starting to understand that Clara knows just how much she controls him. It's indicated in the way she kisses him back. As if she's teaching him how to kiss, her lips are gentle at first, getting him used to the feeling. And each kiss he wants more than the last. Her tongue in his mouth - more exploratory than anything else - but he's shaking because the wanting has overtaken the not-wanting completely.

It's dark now. The only illumination is the fireworks as they swirl across the sky. A dizzying blend of colour: turquoise melts into green melts into red melts into gold. The Doctor is only half paying attention to the various shapes - they all blend together and become this amorphous shape he can see out of the corner of his eye. Kissing Clara is just a bit more important at the moment. There's an exploding fizz that becomes a bird, or maybe a dragon, but Clara's kisses have become more urgent, insistent, and the shape recedes.

Clara is almost relentless. One kiss after another, barely a pause for breath, but he's more than happy to follow along. Could probably kiss her forever and not get bored - their lips just slot together evenly again and again. It's like he's the one running after her down a long and unfamiliar path, instead of the other way around.

A bit of sparkle above them in the sky now: lavender and royal purple centered around a bright white star shape. It helps him see Clara a bit better as she breaks the kiss and just looks at him for awhile. There's something about it - the loud noise of explosion followed by all these different colours fizzing across the sky, all exciting and electric. It's a moment of unspoken communication, a spark jumping between the two of them. Not quite a psychic connection, more of just a heightened awareness: seeing Clara as a reality, something here that's his. _When do I not see you._ The Doctor feels the moment passing and both does and doesn't want it to go - this new vulnerability of his.

Thankfully Clara's in charge. She guides his hand up under her skirt. Intimate, reassuring somehow. He bites back a moan because this is just like, but somehow better than, what he'd been imagining because it's real. She's here with him, skin hot and wet behind _(scrap of fabric)_ and he knows that it's because of him, the duty of care a shared thing. The thought carries him along on a rush of that warm, comforting feeling as Clara helps him move his hand higher, encouraging him to try a gentle massaging motion. That's when she bucks her hips and makes that sound he's been waiting to hear again. A tiny gasping moan as he presses his hand harder against her, feeling up towards a little bump of skin made more prominent by the fabric soaked wet and clinging against her.

He strokes over it and she grabs his wrist to keep him there. Panting, twisting her body closer towards his touch and then she whimpers. The fabric feels even wetter now but he keeps going, more comfortable within the force she exerts over him and the warmth and tenderness that results. Clara's eyes get bigger, unfocused, and she moans. This, too, is like fireworks as she quivers and quakes and comes on his hand, again and again: the feelings they have for each other hurtling across the sky and leaving violence and beauty in their wake.


End file.
